WILL OBAMA KILL GANGSTER RAP?

I had the unfortunate luck of attending the BET Hip-Hop Awards last month at the Atlanta Civic Center. On the way towards the gate, walking from the parking lot, I saw plenty of friends and even one of my former interns, which still trips me out to this day because it makes me remember that I’ve actually had people work under me for free before I was 25. Wow @ the music business...

Anyway, she and her friend, who I’ve also known for the same amount of years, were headed in the opposite direction of me as I was walking up Piedmont. We saw each other, hugged, and I asked axed them where they were going. “To sell these tickets and get the hell out of here.” They both seemed like they were beyond anxious to get rid of the tickets, and almost gave off the vibe that they were secretly willing to just toss them into a sewage drain. Maybe because they knew that the minstrel show was about to pop off.





Once I got inside, I realized that sometimes the student can teach the teacher. Those girls made much better usage of their time than I did for the next two hours, even if they did nothing more than stare at a piece of chewing gum on the street until 10pm. BET should have let Oreck vacuums sponsor the event and could have given out free FlexiStraws to the audience members, because the show simply sucked.

The three performances that stood out the most were the Salt-N-Pepa/Yo-Yo/Rage/Mc Lyte ladies’ night show with the "Whatta Man" campaign, the Common/N.E.R.D mosh pit which featured Lil’ Wayne, Swizz Beats and T-Pain, and presidential thug Young Jeezy, who performed from a bully pulpit onstage while openly and enthusiastically supporting Obama for president.

Now that the election is over, Obama is in transition between his current job and his future one, naming cabinet members and appointing point persons to assist in building his administration. There is a fervent level of support within the Hip-Hop community for the new leader of the free world, and everyone from listeners to artists are unified with pride. Young Jeezy’s “My President is Black” is blaring from thousands of old school Chevrolets in any and every hood in America, while Will.i.am and John Legend are rocking stadiums with "Yes We Can." Even the moguls are involved with the moment. Everybody won!





Yet it was rumored that someone behind-the-scenes, on behalf of President-Elect Barack Obama, quietly requested to Sean Combs, Sean Carter and Mary J. Blige—among other A-list celebs and entertainers—that they refrain from attending the victory celebration in Grant Park on Election Night. Speculation ensued that this was so that no attention would be diverted away from the man of the moment. But you didn’t have to look too closely to spot the most powerful woman in the world, Oprah Winfrey (in her money green business suit) or the Reverend Jesse Jackson Sr., who kept a finger to his lips, his arms tightly crossed and his face wet with what appeared to be some form of moisture. Whether or not this was actually salt water in the form of tears is up for question and not confirmed at press time.





Those two celebrity entertainers made sure that they weren’t outside of the view of the video cameras. What I took from their presence was that Obama stood in between the old guard and the current establishment, but that did not include Hip-Hop--at least not yet. Some of us are probably already calling foul and seeing the exclusion of the Hip-Hop power elite as biting the feeding hand of urban culture, which could of course be reasonably included as one of the major factors that resulted in the election of Mr. Obama. I even read somewhere that dead prez, the radical black militant rap group, is already kicking up dust and drawing a line in the cultural sand between themselves and the soon-to-be "44." How this is going to boost their careers, I have no idea, but I do remember that they were open supporters of Cynthia McKinney and Rosa Clemente, which was quite the fairy tale if you ask axe me; no disrespect to Bill Clinton. And I do remember that, as much as I admire what dead prez does for Hip-Hop, they are a little too ill to be taken seriously sometimes, and it's way too early to cast Obama as the next Uncle Tom.


The question is, will Obama ever have a concert on the lawn of the White House that looks anything similar to this year's BET Hip-Hop Awards? We know Common is invited automatically, and Michelle will probably use her pull to get Salt-N-Pepa added to the lineup, but will Young Jeezy get to perform at the inauguration? Does Obama need him anymore, if he ever did? Or does Young Jeezy need Obama now, and does he foolishly expect to be embraced as a former “snowman” turned Democratic activist? Should he hold his breath waiting to be named the new national drug czar chosen to be in charge of the ONDCP? Or is this a prime opportunity for people like Young Jeezy and Ludacris to join the national political debate as leaders of the new school of Hip-Hop, not to mention southerners with a listening audience in the millions? That could turn into votes one day, which could turn colors like Georgia Red to Obama Blue.





Or will we see something that nobody expects but everybody knows is possible: President Obama will openly repudiate the culture of gangster rap and promote creative arts without graphic sexual, violent, racially insensitive or just brutally obscene language? Will the first black presidency be the first bullet in the heart of Street-Hop? Or will President-Elect Obama continue to see our Hip-Hop movement as irreverently relevant rebel music?

I’m pretty sure that we should get ready for certain rappers to be avoided full-time by the White House and the Democratic Party now that it's all over, while others will be promoted vigorously. Don’t be surprised if Obama has more White House concerts and public events with Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen on the stage than Jay-Z and Puffy; let's just admit that for right now, there’s nothing wrong with that. Let's allow the dust to settle and the emotions to calm for now and let our man Barack tell us his preference of mood music. Just because he might prefer Anita Baker and Maxwell to Keyshia Cole and Lil' Wayne doesn't mean that he will let himself to be used to destroy the force that provided the strongest push for his new position of power.

I think that Obama's true feelings about rap music and Hip-Hop culture will come out in the next four years and we can't expect him to say all positive things, especially if we continue to allow certain artists to keep popping champagne bottles, making money rain from the sky during a savage recession, retelling stale drug war stories and pimping those beautiful black women they adore enough to call "bitches" over mechanical, uninspired beats and melodies. I wouldn't expect it this year, but you know it's coming. And how will we respond?

Time to grow up, Hip-Hop. We’ve got one of our own behind the big microphone now. Let the man lead and don’t bump the turntables while you're trying to get noticed by the cameras doing the Cupid Shuffle at the inauguration. And please don’t shoot up the party if you aren't on the guest list. You already know what they'll say about us the next day on Fox News.

BEFORE I FORGET...

Today was the day that the towers fell. Hope you spent it in reverence of the fallen heroes who never meant to be eulogized when they left their homes for work on this day seven years ago. If only GWB would have listened to the advice of Condoleeza Rice. We wouldn't have lost two giants of the Manhattan skyline and thousands of great women and men on a day that has become a Republikkkan reminder of the fear that we should have as Americans. Remember, "they hate freedom." Translation: Nobody's safe as long as a Republikkkan is in office.

Let me chill and take a moment to show some respect. I hope that as you do the same, you'll take a moment to understand that it never had to happen. And then, take a moment to decide what you're going to do about it, as opposed to what some people would like you to think are your options in this situation. Are you voting in November? Are you encouraging others? Are you afraid of change? Shouldn't you be afraid of the status quo? You decide.

R.I.P. to the unknown true amount of deceased human beings who died unnecessarily because of a president's failure to secure our skies.

DIG THIS: THE HIP-HOP PING-PONG MOVIE

Ping Pong Playa- Official Trailer - The funniest bloopers are right here

What chu know about that PING PONG PLAYA, playa?

That sounded pretty lame, huh? Not as lame as this movie sounds and appears to be, oh my brothers and sisters. It seems that we as a nation are finally crossing the burning sands of race, religion and even the boundaries of geographic location. Now, Chinese people want to "act black", and it's all good. At least, that's what Hollywood wants you to think.

Ping Pong Playa is a movie that's new to U.S. theaters, starting today in Los Angeles and moving east, in which there's a guy named Christopher Wang, a.k.a. Jimmy Tsai, who is the little brother of a champion ping-pong player. He is supposedly "ghetto", and he hangs with a black dude. And that's about it. Not that I've seen it, but joints like this are usually exactly what you'd expect after seeing the trailer, which we now have already done. Lot's of slang, stereotypes and stupidness for young Ivy League Republikkkan weedheads to see and equate to black culture. That sad part is that some of you might buy it when it's hits DVD. SMH.

THE OBAMA CRUSADE: Day 38 - I’M BRAIN DEAD

Alright, I'm back. But bad news: My mind is blown. It's so bad that I have foregone any attempt at being productive, so I will settle for being effective and just share my mental breakdown with you, oh my brothers and sisters.

These are the thoughts runnin’ through my mind, in no particular order. Seriously, I am stunned at the choice of Governor Sarah Palin. I can barely focus on things I need to do because this is absolutely crazy and unexpected.

Here’s the randomness:



• Be not confused; this is GREAT for the Democrats. But I just can't understand how the Republikkkans would kill themselves like this.

• Today is John McCain’s birthday. He turned 72. That means that if he were to serve a full 8-year term as POTUS, he would leave office at 80. I have no words for that.

• Governor Sarah Palin is 44. She is a first-term governor of Alaska and has 2 years on the job.

• I can’t believe this…

• The term I keep hearing on the news is that the vice-president is always “a heartbeat away” from the presidency. When running for POTUS, a VP choice would need to be ready to assume the responsibilities of Commander-in-Chief at any time. Huh?

• CNN’s Jack Cafferty absolutely roasted Palin on Wolf Blitzer’s The Situation Room today. As he said, the Republikkkans gave the Democrats "an early Christmas."

• Remember that America is involved in the War on Terror, which has us bogged down in Afghanistan, Iraq and could take us into Iran very soon. Does she have any – any – foreign policy expertise? I know she's a member of the NRA, but does having a gun mean that you can run multiple wars and the economy? WTF?!

• The job she held before being elected governor was mayor of a town in Alaska that has less than 6,000 residents. Westbumba-clat, Alaska, I believe is the name.

• …………

• There is only one tactical victory for the GO-Pee in this spectacular moment in historic political fuckery. Nobody is really talking about Obama. Not even me.

• This has fried my brain. The only fear I have is that since this is so unexplainable, it might have the effect of a mass lobotomy, and we will all become walking zombies, mental vegetables, and just start agreeing with everything. Jesus, this is so random.

• Senator John McCain just gave the Democrats the gift of political victory over the GOP, hopefully for generations and not just four years. And it's his birthday, not ours.

• ??????????

• Governor Palin is under investigation in her state, for possibly having a role in the firing of a State Trooper. The trooper was her brother-in-law. Nothing corrupt about that.

• Desperation is so unattractive. The Republikkkans have no game at all. What is this woman doing in this party? She is kind of cute…

• Imagine the Vice Presidential debate, coming soon to your favorite television news network. Trust me, if you’ve never trusted me before: Senator Joseph Biden is going to effortlessly take her apart – no question. All he has to do is ask her on live television to tell him anything about anything in the world.

• On the low, this is insulting as hell to women. Maybe on the high. McCain basically said, with the national microphone, "Look here, bitches: I picked up this strange married MILF from Alaska. So vote for me, because all you broads are the same anyway. Oh, and don't get pregnant accidentally anytime soon!! We ain't havin' it, but you are!!!"

• !... ?... !

• This is what you call political pandering, and my guess is that Senator Clinton’s “Hillraisers” support group is going to see right through this as soon as the Democrats begin to mount their assault.

• Seriously, I just knew that the GOP would make this harder. I’m shocked. Happy that they made the wrong move, but disappointed at their stupidity and taking all the fun out of the game.

• ??!!?

• I agree with David Gergen. It should have been Mitt Romney. That would have made sense. How would you feel today if you were Mitt Romney? You know how much chee$e that fool spent trying to be McCain's flunky? FAIL.

• Republikkkans have got to be nervous as hell.

• Wow. She's a journalism graduate. Journalism is dead.

• I gotta call my Dad and my older brother. I know they’re tripping as well.

• I need a drink.

• They say that Palin hasn’t even been “vetted” by the media yet. God, how bad is this shite going to be??

• She came in 2nd in the Miss Alaska '84 pageant. Damn. But, like I told the homie GARLAND earlier, I can’t front. Palin is thick, and I would beat.

• ! ! ! ?

• Jesus. Obama and Biden won’t even say anything bad about her. That’s smart; they don’t even need to. They can let the rest of the world wobble on its axis today and just remain cool. See, that’s why I like Obama. Cooler heads prevail.

• Meltdown… We are witnessing the meltdown of a major political party... My brain is farting…

• The only president to take the oath and enter the Oval Office older than McCain was Ronald Reagan. You know he had Altzheimer's.

• I have to leave this house, or I will suffer complete and total mental collapse.



I’ll be back later. Maybe not until tomorrow. Help me, Jesus. Help me, Tom Cruise.

REALLY DEAD MCs

Tiny Dancer, the famous Chihuahua known as the world's smallest therapy dog, IS REALLY DEAD. The little guy was 5 inches tall and weighed 18 ounces. Awww...


It has been rumored that there is a bidding war going on between Rocawear, Sean John, Michael Vick and China for Tiny's carcass. Diddy and Jay-Z both want to skin him to make those winter coats with the fur lining on the hood. Michael Vick is craving some teriyaki dog jerky behind bars. And guess where they make that? China.






I mean, just look at Tiny Dancer's coat. That stuff could go for $200 a square millimeter in Macy's right now, just as they start rolling out the winter fashions. Sheeit, you might could even make an elegant hair extension out of that fuzz.

R.I.P. Tiny Dancer. You spread happiness to so many people. I hope that your afterlife your owner keeps your body out of the hands of carnivores and fur aficionados.

POETIC JUSTICE: WAKING UP THE DEAD

I haven't found an embeddable video of HAIK HOISINGTON & TAALAM ACEY'S "TRUE LIES" POEM, but if you have 2:03 to spare this morning, you really need to click that link. The wordplay and animation combined are ill.


Here's a different poem, same poet, no animation. Still dope.




If you wanted to wake up this morning thinking that everything was right in America, now that the Democrats are about to officially nominate the first African-American major party candidate for POTUS, then don't let me keep you from dreaming. Snooze on, and if you have a vision of euphorian utopias, write it down when the alarm clock goes off. Maybe we can sell your notes as a bedtime story for children.

That was a joke. Seriously - wake your tired ass up and smell the rotting corpse of our free democracy burning through your nasal passages. If we're going to celebrate the death of the true American dream, let's just call this convention what it really is - a "second line" parade. Let's bring out the brass band, do our dances and get it all over with. You know I'm down.


However, if we intend instead to resurrect our democracy and bring America back from George Bush's hell, we've got more work to do than partying in Denver. So let's not get carried away with all the hype. Feel the momentum, breathe in the fresh air and get ready to buckle down. The Republickins are going to do anything and everything to keep a Democrat out of office. If necessary, we're going to have to fight back.

If, by chance, you were already awake, here's another dose of black coffee. Oh, if only "if" was a spliff...


There's nothing wrong with a pep rally, as long as you win the game afterwards.
- The Underwriter
(hell yeah, I quote myself when I say fresh lines like that)

FLOWERS

[Photo: ALLHIPHOP]


I can't even go into too much detail about how sad this is. I just hope that INGRID RIVERA is finding some comfort in Heaven after experiencing hell in her final hours on earth. Unfortunately, some men are rapists, killers and cowards - all packed into one body. And those men - not the drug dealers - deserve to die. Kill 'em all, I say, and let God Satan sort 'em out.

If you want to read the story of what happened, CLICK HERE.


Rest in peace, Ingrid. May you never be forgotten, and may your name live on to keep other unsuspecting females from being led into dangerous situations with guys they don't know and shouldn't trust.

I'll tell you this much. I have hella female cousins. If this would have happened to one of them, you'd find the guy's head on top of the Georgia Capitol with a scythe still hooked through his ears. I don't play that shit.

THE OBAMA CRUSADE: Day 16

TODAY:


We're going to laugh. We're going to look at the ignorance, and laugh together. Because really, even though political humor can go too far, sometimes it's still funny if you can dig past an obvious insult and find your sense of humor.

Here are a few photos I've found along the way to fullfilling this assignment to cover the Obama campaign for 100 days.

















Pretty classy, huh? Feel free to pass them around to others. Or feel free to start a petition demanding that people stop using caricatures, drawings and graphic manipulation to create images that unfairly draw negative and misleading racial and cultural reactions upon political candidates from those who don't know how to tell a lie from the truth. See how far it gets you.

Good luck with that.

RACISM IS ALIVE - DON'T ACT SURPRISED

Yes, that's Michelle and Barack Obama, in the Oval Office, wearing revolutionary and Islamic attire, engaging in flag burning, Osama worshiping and fist bumping.

Absolutely not worth my time. I don't discuss blatant, incendiary racism when it is done just to stir up fear and loathing. Lest you forget, I live in Cobb County, Georgia, where these stupid ass people think that their ignorance is shared by all. It is strange that The New Yorker would take it this far, but I'm used to it.

Check out these tasteful and dignified items of race-baiting that originate not far from where I reside.


FROM THE ROSWELL BEACON:





FROM MULLIGAN'S FOOD & SPIRITS IN MARIETTA




Whatever the fuck. There's nothing new under the sun.


"White people could never surprise me with racism."
- Chris Rock

CHRISTMAS IN JULY - "SANTA CLAUS" IS DEAD

Before I even ask axe the following question, I need to say one thing. I am an even-thirds split between Native American, African-American and white - certified mutt. I am a southern Baptist, which means that I was brought up around people who believed that Jesus had blonde hair and blue eyes. On top of that, I'm also a proud member of the Mama's Boy club, because my mother is nothing less than a saint. She might even be a goddess, as far as I can tell, so if she lied to me during my early stages, I must assume it was with good intentions for my future, even if it now seems questionable.

But enough of all that, for now. It's not intended as an excuse for the question I pose to you. It's more of a way of explaining the thought behind it, if you follow. It just so happens that, after I posted that last one, I started thinking about religion for some reason. Then, I started thinking about Christmas. Then, I remembered that it's July. And then, I remembered the myth of SANTA CLAUS, and how I once was told to believe that he was real. And on, and on, and on....

And, lo and behold, my mind found a question that I've never before heard asked axed aloud in the ways I thought about, even though I'm sure it's been queried between you and friends or conversational associates - if not among one other person you trust, maybe even two. That is, assuming that you're not scared to confront people with real questions every now and again. If not, I hate to be the bearer of bad inquisitions and scare you off, but I just can't resist this one.

By the way, you don't even have to comment or respond. But if you feel like it's a good question, leave a note about it. You won't hurt my feelings either way.


Here goes...


If we live in a culture where children, as soon as they could comprehend, understand and enjoy a sweet bedtime story, were told by their parents to believe that a fat man named Santa Claus was flying around the world on a supersonic chariot of reindeer and delivering presents to every "good" child alive...

Then, one day, we discovered that the whole story was nothing short or long of a lie...

Then how are we, using the "Fool Me Once..." rule of thinking, supposed to truly believe in some of the religious traditions we hold so close to our hearts, which also start and justify wars between countries?



Too scary to even think about. But those who walk in fear will never reach the truth on their paths. That's not a quote, by the way. I just made that shit up. Get like me.

Lest you internet geeks start thinking that I just woke up and found out that I wouldn't get a new X-Box game and a train set this year, let me just say that I'm a grown-ass man. I've been beating down myths for a long time, way before some of my friends reached puberty. I'm of no illusionary mind that would let me believe anything that I haven't experienced. That includes God, and for the record, I'm a believer. A blond-haired, blue-eyed Jesus or a fat German on a sleigh that can will bring my bad-ass kids some gifts when I can't afford them? No mucho. And I don't even have bastards children yet, if I don't count internet haters. Which I don't.





Sorry to interrupt your sleep. You can thank me later for the gift that keeps on giving through generations... the truth. Now go give out some turkeys to the homeless or something.


"M*therf*ck*r, I'm ILL..."
- Lil' Wayne; "A Millie"

KENNEDY IS DEAD; OBAMA IS ALIVE

I'm sick and fucking tired of hearing that Obama might get assasinated. I mean, really, Bush is still alive, so I don't see why Obama should be worried. If I've learned anything in the last eight years, I can say to my children that it has been proven - even if everybody hates you, you can stil be untouchable if you have friends in the highest of high places. So make sure you're connected, or the writing is on the wall...





But fear not, oh my brothers and sisters. Obama has had Secret Service protection for more than a year. If you'll remember, it was a big deal at the time, because he was the first presidential candidate to ever receive such security detail so early before an election. But it was a clear message to radical militias and general nutcases of all races: f you think you're killing him, you're more than an dewshbag - you're a dumbass. To be honest, I don't even know how close the S.S. is watching the Senator, but I would assume that you're safer around Obama than if you were a black man walking by yourself through Iowa. Therefore, a conversation about the likelyhood of his assasination before (and hopefully during) his presidential administration is a discussion that I'm frankly not willing to have. A wise man told me, "Don't argue with fools."


In my opinion, which might as well be fact, Obama will win this election by a landslide. But that's just me. Everybody else seems to be worried that Obama will face some type of OCTOBER SURPRISE, which is the new fear tactic being promoted by the "vast right wing conspiracy" (whuddup Hillary!). IT'S NOTHING NEW; for decades it has been the strategy of the republikkkan party to use terrorism, crime, nuclear holocaust, abortion, religion, "patriotism", torture and, of course, racism, to fuel their bitter constituents' fears and to rally the rednecks behind a political party that would always try to protect them from having to change with the times. But at least you and I know that the list of fear tactics in the republickin' playbook (nolo) goes on and on, as it has for generations.



Back to the point; everybody is associating the hype and historical relevance of Obama to JFK. I agree that he has all the charisma, character and promise of change that the Kennedys once embodied. But now, as it seems that we might lose the scion of the Kennedy clan to cancer, people are going to need something new. They require a person bold enough to stand in the shoes of greatness at a time when no one else believes it is possible. America needs somebody brave enough, and with enough security, to call the right wing bluff and bring some balance back to our broken planet. And we don't need anybody who's too scared of getting shot to execute change.


My definition of greatness is a state of being that lets a person go beyond contemporary boundaries, higher and further than anything in his or her circumference. Maybe Obama can't stop a bullet, but he represents an idea. Like Che Guevara, Martin Luther King Jr., JFK, RFK, Malcolm X and even Biggie Smalls and Tupac Shakur, it's already too late to stop the legend from being passed along. Might as well see what he can actually do. And if I had to name one reason why I admire him, it would be because I think he has almost no fear. Because the whole idea of this new reality we're living in is some wild shit stuff anyway. I can't even lie and say I saw this coming two years ago. Oh well, that's how revolutions go, I guess. The idea will always outlive the idealist. Word to Guy Fawkes.





Kennedy is dead, but his legacy lives like Che Guevara. Obama may not be Che incarnate, but he's definitely Kennedy 2.0. Upgraded, elevated and educated. Plus, he's raised more money. Can we just agree that this election is over, already?

Or here's a better question:

If America defaulted on that promise of "40 acres and a mule" for former slaves, and if reparations are out of the question, and if Juneteenth is a black American holiday that most white people have never heard of, and if Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton never got this far, and if McCain is 114 years old, and if Barack was the first black president of The Harvard Law Review (couldn't have been easy), and if Hillary couldn't beat him, and if Bush isn't the worst, then why the fuck are people so afraid of letting this guy, the obvious underdog with overwhelming appeal, have his chance at running the country without the janky-ass suggestion that, simply because he's black, he can't be allowed to win or he'll only end up dead before we can even see that change that we can believe in?

Man, don't get me started...


If the man loses, he loses. Let's not speculate any futher. And remember, I live below the Bible Belt, around rich white people. So if I seem like I'm salty, I'm just sharing my experiences in Cobb County, GA, with you. Hopefully the political climate for debate is better on your side of the world, because sometimes it's hell out chea in the South. But, judging from the recent cover of Rolling Stone, it doesn't seem that Obama is much worried at all...





You gotta love it.

IF YOU ASK AXE ME

Washington D.C. just got wilder. The 32-year ban on handguns in the District of Columbia IS OFFICIALLY OVER. Who knows; maybe it’s a good thing for freedom, liberty and all that b.s. I mean, the Constitution does state that all Americans have the right to bear arms.

But, if you ask axe me, it’s awfully strange that this happens right when it appears that Senator Barack Obama might actually win the presidency. And if you live in or have ever visited D.C., you know that the hood is right around the corner from Pennsylvania Avenue.

I’m not one to advocate carrying handguns, because in my opinion, that’s why Ninjas are always getting shot. Simple math. Now a rifle, a knife or a scythe is much more preferable. But that’s just my theory.

Let’s just hope that this isn’t Christmas in July for racist militias. When Justices Antonin Scalia, Clarence Thomas and Samuel Alito vote the same way in a Supreme Court case, it’s usually bad news when it passes.

SOURCE: Reuters

THE BUCKET LIST

The Bucket List is a list of things that need to hurry up and die, because they're killing the human race in one way or another.

For this installment, we explore ENERGY DRINKS and the geek monsters that drink them. If you haven't noticed, energy drinks are usually guilty of some of the worst and most blatantly ridiculous product names and marketing schemes in business. If you don't know what I'm talking about, take a look at the list:

--------------------------------


SUM POOSIE



(What every man wants)
--------------------------------


GURU



(Is Gang Starr getting check$ from this?)
--------------------------------


GO GIRL



(Sugar-Free?!)
--------------------------------


PIMP JUICE



(Did Nelly skeet in this? Nolo.)
---------------------------------


COCAINE



(The Devil is Alive... How sad is this??)
---------------------------------

Do what you will with your own fucking health. I'm not a doctor, and I'm not trying to tell you muh-fuckas what to do with your body. But just don't be a victim of your own need for extra energy and such. Because that would make you a geek monster. And I love you too much to let you go out like a sucka.

If I gotta dead you, know it's only 'cause I love you...
Talib Kweli - "Know That"

DEADLINES - A Writer's Frustration with Freeloaders

THE UNDERWRITER is the product of years of journalistic frustration and failed attempts at humility. As a reporter, a staff writer, an editor and a public relations consultant, I've been on the bad business end of the long dick of the literary field and entertainment industry (nolo) more times that I'd like to admit. Nine out of ten times, I’ve helped those close to me get on and get dough, only to see no bread when it starts baking. Now, I help no one but yours truly, unless of course I really want to do it. Hoes gotta eat too.

That’s the key, isn’t it? In my opinion, the media is littered with fame fluffers who most closely resemble something like a mole on my ball satchel. A plethora of nut huggers and assorted smegma. Plenty of people expecting you or I to deny our need for economic gain just for the chance to be involved. Friends and other fuckers with their hands out, asking axing for assistance when they know that business is business is business, and slavery ended with Lincoln. Even though I write from the underside of all things, I do have a humanitarian heart, even though there's not a charitable bone in my body (nolo). Especially when I know you're not starting a non-profit. You want to make money, and that takes money. Especially when you're dealing with the best.


HUNTER S. THOMPSON - The Inspiration




In other words, dear readers, I’m not the one to help you or anyone else further their PROFITABLE career, unless there’s something in it for your homie. That means, in no uncertain terms, that I don’t work for you without an incentive, and you don’t deserve my billable hours at the low-low rate of $Free.99. We’re just not that fucking cool. And if you can't afford my services, you need to get your weight up.


ERNEST HEMINGWAY - The Prototype




But if we are cool, and I believe in what you’re doing – and you aren’t secretly getting paid and leaving me with the pocket lint – I might be willing to barter. You scratch my back and vice versa (nolo). But don’t expect me to sympathize with your lack of necessary funding, and don’t believe that I’m so hungry to advance my career that I simply want to be “published.” No, hoe, I want to be paid like a pimp.


JAMES BALDWIN - The Pioneer




This past week, while taking a few days off from posting blogs, I was coming up with new personal slogans. This comes from my other side job as a copywriter; I tend to come up with a few classic lines every now and then that make it to national eyes and ears through my clients and connects. But I always save the best for myself, because I own it anyway. So I came up with my newest credo this week, and just so you don’t think I’m that stingy with the creative juice, I’ll share the wisdom with you heathens.

MY NEW MOTTO:
“If it ain’t me, it ain’t free.”

That means that if I’m not working for myself, I’m not working for zero down and no interest until 2010. I’m not a used car salesman; I’m the best writer alive, even though this blog is dead.





It also means that if I do decide, by some miraculous example of divine intervention, that I want to help someone else move forward without being compensated for my time and mental expenditure, I’m going to do it my way. There is no representation without taxation, and THE UNDERWRITER has already paid his dues just to keep the party going. You want my help, you’ll accept it as it comes. And without payment, you’d better expect me to be as late as I want to be. Or as rebellious with my ideas as I feel fit.

Sorry to subject you to this immaculate assholery that I’m on today. Contrary to what you might be thinking as you read this, I’m actually in a very splendid mood. I always meet my deadlines, even when they’re not benefiting me beyond knowing that my writing is still in the public view. I love being involved in new and upcoming things that are sure to break the mold. I get thrills and chills when I see something I’ve done make it’s way into the pantheon of literary f*ckery that we call The Beast The Media.

But I don’t work for free, so don’t ask unless you feel extremely lucky. The writer gets paid first, because being “The Best Writer Alive” means that you must believe in your own worth and value more than anyone else, or you’ll never reap the rewards for your hard work and dead-ication.


THE UNDERWRITER - The Best Writer Alive



Pay like you weigh, bitches. Live long and prosper.

TUESDAY NIGHT LIVE

Good JESUS! Your homie, THE UNDERWRITER, must have gotten overthrowed last night, because I have a mean linger right now and can’t understand why I’m so hung over. Honestly, I was surprised at my coherence and comprehension during my weekly phone convo with Mom this morning. She hits me once a week, early in the A.M., to talk politics, life, love and dreams. Mom is the truth. Matter of fact, shout to your Mom.

But lest we forget, your homie was/is throwed like a horseshoe last night/this morning. So, I’ll let that “journalist” idiot, Michael Jordan, fill in for me on this one. I’m going to have a warm, leftover Corona and two cups of hot white tea to soothe my bubbly stomach. Then I’m going back to bed, bitches.

Take it away, MJ…

###################################################

(This is why I prefer to go out on Tuesday nights in Atlanta. You wouldn’t expect it, but this is when the Atlanta crowd is at its best.

First of all, you have a certain limit to your fun. You won’t get too crazy, because it’s still early in the week. Then, it’s like an insider thing. People come into town on the weekends in Atlanta, just to trick off a G stack and say they balled out in the A. It’s almost worth the following week of no electricity and no food, back home in Guntersville. On a Tuesday night, the cool kids know that you don’t have to spend any money besides gas and maybe drinks, so we have our fun when the OT crews are away.

Only a few clubs charge a cover on Tuesday, and those that do are definitely worth the price. My favorite club in Atlanta, THE MARK , which used to be Karma, always charges admission. The few times I remember walking in without paying, I felt like the Shogun of Harlem. It’s a rarity. But I still get “the freak ghost” when I go there, because of wild experiences in my early twenties.




But this night, I forsook The Mark for other options. After such a dead Monday night, I figured I should at least give it another shot. Luckily, Atlanta does have options, so last night there were three spots that I planned to hit after work. First was Café 290, located not far from me on Roswell Road. Next was the Brand Nubian concert at The Loft in Midtown, and last would be D’Jango’s.





I got off work and went right to another local wireless bar, to eat some fish and spaghetti and drink two Sweetwater drafts. After getting the preliminary business accomplished, I changed clothes and headed to 290. I’ve been there before, but it’s one of those spots that’s so remote that you need directions every time you get invited. When I got there, there was an artist’s showcase going on, promoted by my homie Rodney from Huntsville. On the low, Huntsvillians are making moves in Atlanta; back-and-forth scramblers. Only one artist performed – a cute female with a nice body and a decent voice, with enough courage to sing fearlessly. I actually clapped when she finished each song. Plus I met this cool-ass nig named Troy, who went to Morehouse and knew some of the same industry people I’ve worked with. I roffled (look it up) when he bristled at some chick who asked axed him to sponsor her Long Island iced tea. Dude is like the new Robin Harris, down to the look. A great comic; he needs his own HBO special.




R.I.P.


After doing the polite networking thing, I got bored around 11:45 and bounced to The Loft. Brand Nubian (that’s Grand Puba, Lord Jamar and DJ Alamo – Sadat X is still in jail) had an RSVP-only, Scion-sponsored show, and I figured I'd come see if they could still bring out the faithful NY crowd in Atlanta. Unsurprisingly, the camouflage and hoodie crowd showed up en masse. I wasn’t mad, these dudes deserve some down south love. Nolo.

I arrived right on time at midnight, to see Brand Nubian take the stage and go through some of their catalog classics, like “Punks Jump Up to Get Beat Down,” “Love Me or Leave Me Alone,” “All for One” and Grand Puba’s, “I Like It.” Cool vibe. The tri-state crowd was definitely feeling it. Me being 5’6”, I wasn’t trying to fight my way through the sausage fest that bum-rushed the stage, so I sat in the back and took in the whole scene. I wanted to hear “Don’t Let it Go to Your Head,” “Steal Ya Ho” and “Slow Down,” but by the time I hit the $20 minimum for using a credit card at the bar, I was tipsy enough to be tired of hanging out. Plus, I was a little tight about this lame, up-north skeezer, who had the nerve to drop a balled-up napkin right in front of me on my table, while I was writing notes for this very blog. This hooka damn near reached over my arm just to put her trash in my face. I almost went Dipset, but in the name of national cultural understanding I let it go without calling her a chicken-head beeaieeatch to her face. Chivalry ain’t dead.





Seeing Brand Nubian in concert in 2008, in Atlanta, is like seeing OutKast in New York, ten years from now. You love it, because you remember the music and long for that feeling when you instantly loved the songs, but you feel sentimentally sad that this era is no more. It’s a reminder that Hip-Hop really may be dead, but as long as we’re here to celebrate the past and move into the future, we’ll always have fond memories. And on a different note, I prefer to see Brand Nubian - the whole group - than a three-the-hard-way version(nolo). It's true that I used to get upset with Sadat back in the day; he had a habit of coming slack with his rap game, but at least he brought raw energy to Grand Puba’s swagger and Lord Jamar’s 5% theory overload. It was a masterful equation.

So, free Sadat X, I guess. Bring back that good music in Hip-Hop. Support out of town rappers who deserve praise and recognition. And drink Sweetwater beer when you’re in Atlanta, because it’s a local brew and it’s good. Don’t forget to bring your own joint when you go to a rap show, because cats are stingy with theirs. And don’t think that Atlanta has nothing to offer you New York niggas. We’re international, and we still appreciate the pioneers of the game, even if y’all don’t.)


And that’s what you call a good night.


[Young Michael Jordan]

MONDAYS ARE DEAD

What had happened was…

In honor of that last post for my homie ToeJoe (R.I.P.), I was going to write this cool ass post tonight. On some real, “Michael Jordan – Journalist At Large,” type of blogging. None of that, “THE UNDERWRITER could care less about your dewshy-ass feelings,” type of thing. That real journalism that other Hip-Hop bloggers write about, like the Erykah Badu listening party that just went down tonight at Mid City Café. Maybe even the Rick Ross shindig, or even the local rock band’s show at Drunken Unicorn that my white homie told me about.

But alas…






(See, this is why the F*ck I don’t go out in Atlanta. Niggas like Blaze ask axe me all the time what’s poppin’ in the clubs. I give them the same fonky ass reason. This city is built for tricks, and tricks are for kids. I’m not the one to be out chea using my check card to finance a lifestyle I’m not so sure I condone anymore. Sure, I like to get swervy like the rest of my heathens, but not to the tune of $100 or more, just to be seen by other niggas while I’m doing it so bigly.

And this is why I’m hot. I’m mad cuz I drove, about a hunned blocks. This is why, this is why, this is why I’m hot. I still spent a hunned dollaz - that I ain’t got. This is why, this is why, this is why I’m hot. The spot wasn’t fly; promoter should be shot. This is why, this is why, this is why I’m hot. So I’m back at the crib, with Coronas and some pot. This is why, this is why, … You get it.

So here's where the phuckery began...

It was supposed to be a night of Hip-Hop journalist research. I was done running errands by 5pm, so I figured I'd get a head start on the buzz, since I had to drive downtown from East Cobb County, where Ne-Yo just tried to ghost-ride the whip a few days ago and found himself in the hootie-hoosegow. Better to get the buzz early and let it wear off by night, Cobb County boys ain't nuthin' to eff with. By the way, Ne-Yo's mugshot DOME GAME (nolo) is pretty unbecoming. Anyway, I called myself hitting up my favorite wireless bar first, to get pre-scummy off gin and tonic and Bass ale, right around happy hour. Cheers!

Two rounds of each, then an Alabama Slammer, just for the good folks back home. That’s five. Now, to all you M.A.D.D. motherf*ckers out there, don’t get upset. The gin and tonics were short. Plus I had a stomach full of MSG from lunch at China Dynasty. So I was still pretty clear headed by the time I rode out, on my way to meet the Leprechaun, en route to hear the new Erykah Badu.

Come on, now. Don’t act like you don’t know the Leprechaun. There’s a little green man in every hood who might be elusive, but if you find him, he’ll lead you to a pot of gold. I caught his ass and got the prize.

So that’s another action item scratched off my itinerary. I’m now cruising down 75S, on my way to Mid City Café, which according to Mapquest, was located at 845 Spring Street. I even went the extra mile and wrote down the address and other helpful information on a bar napkin earlier. It was between 5th and 6th Street, near West Peachtree. It was close to the Georgia Tech Barnes & Noble. I know the area.





The question was, if I really know the area, why the f*ck am I driving around in circles in midtown Atlanta, looking for a place that doesn’t seem to exist? See, this is how MA$E got caught up a few months ago, except that I really wasn’t looking for transtesticle prostitutes; I was trying to find the new Badu album party. And it would be so much easier if the building numbers didn't just jump from the 900’s to the 750’s on Spring Street, with no other club venue in sight besides The Cheetah, the notorious trick factory strip club.

I finally get tired of doing block donuts and park on a side street between 5th and 6th, figuring that I couldn’t be that stupid. Mapquest said it was right chea. So I walk around the corner, still on Spring Street, and what do I see? 845 Spring Street – Mid City Lofts. Some high priced condos that look tricknificient from the outside. But where’s the club?

I see a sweet, old black lady sitting behind the front desk, behind the door. Security, I guess. She buzzed me in, and I asked axed her if she knew where Mid City Café was. She smiled, and said that everybody kept axing her the same question that night. The lounge was on the other side of the building. The side facing the other street. In other words, the club wasn’t really on Spring Street at all; it was on West Peachtree. Thank you Mapquest, for your directional dewshery.





So I walks in and see that it ain’t poppin’. Not at all. The venue was a slit in the building’s front skirt, wide enough to look into but not enough to be happy about. Plus I felt like I looked pervy for showing up alone, dressed semi-rugged for what I thought was a Badu-inspired party. I walked in, and west-side walked it out. Shit was lame.

So what next? Let’s see about that Rick Ross thing that one of my editors told me about earlier via Gmail. Of course, I had earlier said, “Eff Rick Ross,” in conversation, but I didn’t really mean it now that I had driven 30 miles, for a lame listening party with no host and no real Baduism. At that point, I was just ready to hang out. But I was reminded by my editor by text that the Rick Ross event was RSVP-only. And yes, they were checking names at the door. Eff Rick Ross.

That left Option C: the local rock band at Drunken Unicorn. D.U. is located on Ponce de Leon, which ironically is also known for transtesticles, winos, doo-doo head-dummies and various losers, but there are some cool hangouts as well. FYI: If you’ve been to Atlanta and never visited MJQ, you aren’t really connected to the real scene.

So I park and approach the door, when I see a sign above the door that says they accept cash only, thanks, at the door and at the bar. I reached into my pocket and found 2 fives and 1 one. Not good enough math for a good time. So I walk in, get carded and ask axe the doorman to direct me to the nearest ATM. He said it was right outside, and the cover was $8.

I walk back outside, probably looking like I had been rejected for having a fake ID, and head for the ATM. I get there and see a sketch of some lunchbox white guy who I guess had been robbing fools left and right at the ATM. Not my problem! So I go for my card, and get all revved up for a good swiping. Then I notice the screen says, “Out of Order.”





F*ck!!

So I look at the only viable alternative: The Kroger across the street. Surely there would be either my bank or a Bank of America inside, which is usually the custom in Atlanta. So I start walking across what has to be the longest grocery store parking lot in the metro area, smoking a ciggy and cursing the devil. I walk through the automatic doors, right up to the fat bastard security guard who looked like he was one chicken wing away from heaven, and asked axed him to point me towards the ATM.

He said, “Oh, it’s right there, my brotha!” I looked behind me, and lo and behold, there it was. A shitty little ATM machine that you could probably lift and run away with if it weren’t cemented to the floor. But I didn’t care at all. I loved this little financial booger bear, because it was going to set the night to music for me. All would be perfect. I once again reached for my check card, and this time I let it rip proudly through the reader like Nelly in “Tip Drill.” PIN number? Yessir! Fee? No problem! Amount? $40, please!!

… waiting patiently…

“We’re sorry; this machine is temporarily unable to dispense money. Please try again later.”





F*ck this. Three strikes and I’m out.

So I start the long walk back across the parking lot, probably looking like a loser who's balance was overdrawn and couldn't buy crack for the night. Lucky for me, one of my all time favorite spots in Atlanta, Dugan’s, is located directly across the street from Drunken Unicorn and known for the supercrunk chicken wangs. So I moved the car about 50 feet, grabbed my laptop bag and ate 10 lemon pepper joints, had a glass of Heineken, checked my email, read some blogs, used my Visa check card and called it a f*cking night for Atlanta. Sayonara, bitches.

On my way home, I stopped and copped a six of Corona, ate my leftover egg roll from China Dynasty and called the Leprechaun to thank him for the pot of gold he had given me earlier.)





That’s what you call a happy ending.